


Commission: The Jealous Mother

by Ticklesforyou



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Child Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Consensual Tickling, Parent/Child Incest, Role Reversal, Sexual Abuse, Teenagers, Tickle torture, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ticklesforyou/pseuds/Ticklesforyou
Summary: She just wanted to live a normal life, but her mother despised her, put her down, demeaned her, controlled her. Until finally, she retaliated in turn.
Relationships: Mother/Daughter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17
Collections: Commissions by Ticklesforyou





	Commission: The Jealous Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is a work of fiction. It is a sexual fantasy involving a self-insert minor being ticklishly and sexually abused by a truly despicable mother. Potentially highly triggerable (even by my standards). Reader discretion is advised.

She never knew her father. According to Mom, he died in an accident before she was born, but she didn't believe that anymore. He probably left just like all of Mom's boyfriends since then. This may sound like a harsh assessment for a daughter to make of her mother, but Mom was a harsh person. She had a short temper, a spoiled personality and was just all around mean.

It was always that way as far back as she could remember. When Mom came home from a bad day at work or a date-gone-wrong, the supposedly loving parent would get drunk and take her wrath out on the blonde-haired child. But Mom was not so cruel or heartless of a mother that she had ever actually _hurt_ her. Instead the dark-haired woman, her breath reeking of booze, would tickle her.

If she were one of those lucky children who enjoyed being tickled, this would have been all well and good, but she wasn't. She _hated_ being tickled. It didn't matter where; every part of her body was unbearably ticklish. Her mother took advantage of that to vent her fury in a way that left her unharmed, that way know one would ever know that she was being abused.

She feared tickling above all else. So naturally, she learned strategies to appease her mother's temper from an early age. She learned to always agree with everything Mom said, offer her drinks (particularly alcohol) and food, and give her massages all in an effort to cool her mother's temper before getting tickled. At first, results were variable, but in time, Mom decided she prefers being spoiled and pampered to torturing her daughter. Usually. And as such, in time she managed to avoid getting tickle tortured more than once a month.

This delicate balance was far from ideal, but it was the best she could hope for, so she did everything she could to maintain it. But then something unavoidable disrupted that balance. She got older. With age came beauty, and that beauty was not lost on Mom, especially when she started to catch her trashy boyfriends glancing sidelong at the teen. She had become curvy in all the right places, her subservient attitude was endearing, and to top it all off her breasts had grown larger than her mother's--a D-cup compared to Mom's B-cup. Mom became jealous of her, and one day, something snapped.

It started one rainy day right after yet another boyfriend dumped Mom and stormed out of the house. She knew from experience that when this happened here at home, one of two things followed: either her mom would go drinking for a while and come back appeaseable, or she would immediately turn around and punish her. So it was not a surprise when Mom ordered her to come to the master bedroom. And since she had long since accepted that some ticklings were unavoidable, no matter how much she wished they weren't, she obeyed. But this time, things felt different. Normally Mom would have started ranting and raging early on, but this time, she was silent. This was a bad sign; her mother's silence could only signify that Mom was exceptionally enraged, not at the boyfriend but at her specifically.

She didn't understand why. _What did I do wrong?_ she wondered, as her mother issued a frightening new command. "Take off your clothes. All of them this time, including your underwear.” _All_ of her clothes? This had never happened before. Her mother had always left her with at least some modesty.

She felt a powerful urge she hadn’t felt in years: to turn around and run away as fast as she could rather than just obey. But she knew that wouldn’t work. Her mother locked the exits and in this house, the only way to open the doors, even from the inside, was with the key. So she stood there hesitating for several moments, but Mom’s glare grew even more vicious and, more afraid of the consequences of disobedience than merely stripping nude, the daughter slowly slipped out of her already-revealing outfit, bra, and panties and then lay down on the king-sized bed as instructed.

Mom knew where all of her most ticklish spots were and usually went straight for them. In was normal for her mom to go straight for her feet, then to her upperbody, then back to her feet. This pattern was unpleasantly burned into her expectations, but this time, Mom broke the pattern by coming over to her upperbody, getting onto the bed and straddling her waist. This was a new position and her mother was moving oddly slowly today, relishing in… something, and it made her very, very afraid.

“...Do you think you’re prettier than me?” The half-whispered rhetorical question surprised her. She’d never once thought that; she’d been _conditioned_ not to think that. Yes, Mom had a rotten personality, but she had always thought of her as extremely beautiful. But while she was still processing the question, her mom suddenly reached over and gripped her breasts. “You think these oversized milk jugs make you better than me?!” Mom screamed, shaking her tits around.

A feeling like an electric shock tore through her body. She’d never had her breasts fondled before. She’d been _told_ that’s it’s supposed to be arousing, and to be sure, she did feel a sensual heat filling her body involuntarily. But more than that, the mere touch _tickled_. She’d never heard that boobs could be ticklish and right at that moment, she wished she’d never had to know. Because she knew her mom, and Mom knew her. She’d been conditioned to never hold back when she felt a ticklish sensation, and Mom knew every single flinch, twitch and wiggle that signified it. The instant her mother touched her, not intending to tickle but apparently touching a ticklish spot, she yipped, and her face twisted into a pained grin. And Mom, of course, noticed immediately.

All motion stopped. Mom apparently hadn’t been planning to start tickling right away. She’d thought she would molest her daughters huge tits first as punishment for having them. Maybe she might even be psychotic enough to finally harm her after all these years. But the instant she reacted to the touch, those ideas went away. Mom looked at her. She looked at Mom. And slowly… Mom’s face turned into an evil smile, the kind that signified that mercy was far away and the night’s session would last for a long, long time. “So they’re ticklish? I guess these big ugly basketballs are good for something then. Let’s find out how much.”

Mom’s fingers began spidering over the sides of her breasts, slowly slipping around, in between, and overtop in their search for the best reactions. “Eeheeheeheeheehahahah, stohohohohop pleeheeheeheeheeheease!” She knew that begging was useless, and normally she wouldn’t bother this early in the session. But this was different; she was being violated in a completely new way and couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

This did nothing but encourage her mother, who decided to tickled harder and faster in response. “Yeah, that’s right! That’ll teach you to have bigger boobs than me! These meat sacks only exist to be tickled! Just big ticklish lumps like the rest of your useless body!” She mocked and degraded her own daughter while tormenting one of her most private parts.

It was already torture by itself. If this were any other body part, she would have hated it but also accepted it. But as it was, she wasn’t only feeling tickling. Having her breasts fondled and teased like this turned her on immensely, and she was so incredibly ashamed of that, especially since the person causing it was her own mother. “NOHOHOHO, DOHOHOHON’T AH-AH-AHAHAHAHA!” That was the real reason she was pleading so much. She couldn’t stand this--being turned on by her mother’s tickling was a punishment worse than any other before from an emotional standpoint. Of course, Mom didn’t stop. Mom just kept tickling and tickling and tickling. The long fingernails settled on scribbling under and between her boobs, which made her squeal louder than ever. This was almost as bad as her feet even without the arousal.

Most people don’t know how much time passes while being tickled. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours, and hours like eternity. But torturous tickling had been a part of her life forever, so she knew, even if it didn’t feel like it, that her mother had only tickled her for one minute before pausing. She gulped down huge lungfuls of air, causing her sensitive chest to rise and fall under her mom’s watchful gaze, until finally Mom ended the break with the words, “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” and placed one fingernail on her left areola. 

“Aaaahn!” Her moan confirmed her mother’s words even as she felt the laughter bubbling up again. Her nipples were fully erect and, she could tell, very sensitive to tickling. “Please, no, don’t…”

“You’re rock hard during your punishment?! Have you been getting turned on by me this whole time?! Is that why you’re always trying to get me to tickle you?!” This ridiculous accusation was accompanied by ten fingernails scratching and pinching and flicking both nipples at once. And she laughed louder and begged harder than she had in her whole life. This was not _almost_ as bad as her feet: it was officially _worse_. She was getting wet down under and yet she’d never felt further away from an orgasm before--the tickling was far too intense for that even ignoring how wrong it felt emotionally.

This went on and on for more than 10 minutes. Mom switched between her underboobs, the in between and her nipples again and again, all the while taunting and rebuking her for her body’s reaction. And with the passage of time, she started begging for release. 10 minutes of being held on edge is a long time when being tickled--long enough to make her want to cum even if it did feel wrong. But Mom would have none of it; she was angry and this was a punishment. Although, Mom _was_ more than happy to taunt her for it. “You want to cum? Hmm? You want me to get a vibrator out and masturbate you? Fuck that!” And after 10 minutes, her mom decided it was time to move elsewhere.

Mom’s hands suddenly jumped over to her armpits and scrambled up and down her sides. This was significantly less ticklish, which was a relief, but also killed her arousal, which was torturous in its own right. She had to deal with the frustration of being denied and the guilt of wishing her mother had stroked her vagina while laughing and squirming in tickle hell. Mom hit all of her sweetest sweet spots on her upperbody: the center of her armpits, that one rib right on the bottom of her ribcage, that torturous point on her hips and her extra sensitive navel. And every so often, Mom would reach up and tickle her breasts again, as if to remind her daughter that this was all because they were there.

From that day onward, breast tickling was regularly incorporated into their sessions whenever they happened. This was bad enough in and of itself, but what was worse was that her mother took quite a liking to it. So much so, in fact, that her old tactics for getting out of tickling did little to appease her mom now. Mom was so jealous of her boobies that she wanted to tickle them more and more. Before long, the sessions had become daily again, and Mom started coming up with all kinds of creative ways to tickle her melons.

One day, she used a really long feather, snaking it between and around her breasts while her chest was propped up on the bed by a mountain’s worth of pillows under her back. Another day, she was tied with her body hanging backwards off the edge of the bed, her underboobs on full display thanks to gravity, and an electric spinning duster pressed into them. And then on another day, she was tied sitting on the floor with her hands behind her back and her legs stuck in a pretzel shape with her feet pointing up; Mom sat behind her and pressed electric toothbrushes into her nipples and toes while whispering cruel promises that “discipline” was for her own good into her ear.

She hated it. She hated it! With every as-of-yet untamed ounce of her soul, she utterly hated it! But she also couldn’t deny how much it turned her on, how wet her pussy would get, how she desperately wanted release. And in her darkest dreams in the dead of night, of which she had many, she found herself becoming horny at the thought of being tickled for eternity. Most of those dreams ended with demons who looked suspiciously like her mother but male having sex with her while they tickled _at first_ , but over time, she started to dream of being tickled on her genitalia until she orgasmed. And that, _that_ was what she hated the most. She was being traumatized and conditioned to crave tickling during sex and she was well-aware of it. And yet ironically, the one responsible didn’t want sex at all, just punishment.

This process lasted almost a year. And then one day, she woke up orgasming in the middle of the night merely as the result of one of these wet dreams. She was in tears as she realized how incredibly broken she was, and a thought suddenly occurred to her--a revolutionary thought the likes of which she’d never had. Maybe… maybe she could get revenge on Mom? It was the middle of the night. She’d be fast asleep. Maybe she could…

About an hour later, her mother started to dream that a handsome but angry angel had descended to her. He was delivering God’s judgement: that she should be tickled for eternity as an atonement for the torture she’d inflicted on her daughter. Then the angel reached a wing out to her stocked foot and started sliding his feathers around. Mom laughed and struggled and tried to get away, but she couldn’t. She was trapped. Trapped…

Mom suddenly woke up to find the nightmare was in fact reality. Only she wasn’t on the border between heaven and hell and her tormentor was not some handsome angel she was secretly wishing would be her next boyfriend. It was her, the daughter, tickling her feet with her own featherduster.

Mom was furious. “YOU BITCH!” she yelled, causing her to recoil and drop the duster in fear. “WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE, YOU’RE GOING TO BE LAUGHING FOR DAYS, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

She ran out of the room terrified of what she’d started. But hours passed and no one chased her. No one came and tied her down and tickled her senseless. And eventually, she tiptoed cautiously back to the master bedroom to find her mother still there, staring at the ceiling after having given up trying to get out. Her mother looked over at her and with obviously forced gentleness demanded to be let out while promising that she wasn’t mad and wouldn’t punish her. It was so obvious that she was lying. But… why? 

Because Mom really was helpless. She really couldn’t escape.

Suddenly the daughter, long tortured and abused and now in the prime of her rebellious phase, became emboldened. Yes, why should _she_ be the one to suffer all the time? She walked over to her mother as flighty as a wild kitten to a human with food. But in her eyes, a hungry light started to grow brighter and perhaps Mom realized that because her pleas for release started to sound more and more convincing.

Her mother had never cared about wearing pajamas; she was already completely nude when the daughter tied her down. And after months of sexual frustration at her mother’s hands, she knew exactly what she wanted to do. Her mind had twisted and warped to the point where she craved nothing more than for her mom to tickle her to orgasm; as much as she loathed the idea and hated herself for it, she would nonetheless do anything to attain it. So she would teach Mom what it feels like to be denied. 

She reached out her hands and started to tickle her mother’s small, hand-sized boobs. The reaction was instantaneous. “NAAAHAHAHAHAHA, YOOHOOHOOHOOHOU BIHIHIHIHIHIHITCH! I’HIHIHIHIHIM GOHOHOHOHONNA MUHUHUHUHURDER YOOHOOHOOHOOHOOHOU! STOHOHOHOHOHOP!” Mom was ticklish. Mom was very ticklish. The discovery sent a wave of euphoria through her; Mom was so very, incredibly ticklish!

She entered a trance-like state, a half-dead, half-awed smile on her face. She mumbled, “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” like a mantra as she explored her mother’s naked body. She explored her armpits, her sides, her ribs, her stomach, her thighs, her knees, her feet. For hours and hours, Mom laughed and struggled. About halfway through, her mother had stopped making threats and simply begged for it to stop. Mom apologized over and over and offered everything she could think of to her daughter--money, a permanent end to punishments, the key to the house. But she wanted none of that. What she wanted… was to know if this turned on her mother as much as it did her.

So she pulled out Mom’s smallest brush from her collection of toys and the horrible, horrible electric toothbrush from before and came back over to her mother. After several hours of torment she whispered into her ear: “I want to be where you are. And I want you to do what I’m about to do to you.” And then she placed the toothbrush down on Mom’s areola and the tiny little brush on her clit. She brushed and stroked as her mother laughed and laughed for minutes on end all the way to climax. “Please. Do that for me. Promise me, and I’ll let you switch places with me.” Her voice was dripping with desperate lust and she didn’t stop tickling Mom while she spoke.

Mom’s laughter reached a desperate peak as she cried, “YES, YES I PROHOHOMIHIHIHIHISE AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” That was all she needed to hear, and so she started untying the ropes. Her panting mother, however, didn’t make the promise merely out of a desire to escape. No, in those few seconds between when she came and when she made the promise, she learned something she’d never known. Orgasming makes you more ticklish. Yes, she would let her daughter cum from now on. And she would make her wish she hadn’t. And… she would also remember to lock her room at night from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was commissioned from me via my DeviantArt/Discord account. If you like what you see and want more--or if you don't like what you see and want something different--feel free to contact me and place a commission. Pricing is $5 for every 300 words. Full details on my DA account under the same username.


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